Siobhan Denton – Bitch Flicks

‘Split’: Web Series by All-Female Crew about a Woman’s Parallel Lives

The idea of a life potentially being different hinging on a seemingly innocuous decision can, and often is, highly engaging, largely because it is one that is so simple and relatable. … Created and written by Yael Shavitt (who also stars as Sam/Samantha in adulthood), ‘Split’ is a truly feminist work, intentionally created through a female-only team of four women filmmakers, resulting in an all-female on-set crew.

This guest post written by Siobhan Denton is an edited version that originally appeared at The Blue and the Dim. It is cross-posted with permission.

The concept of a life converging and diverging has long occupied the minds of artists and filmmakers. The idea of a life potentially being different hinging on a seemingly innocuous decision can, and often is, highly engaging, largely because it is one that is so simple and relatable. At times, this concept can become trope-like, but when presented thoughtfully, as is in the case of Split, it can aid character development and narrative engagement.

Conceived as a web series consisting of ten 10-minute episodes, Split focuses on the life of Sammy (Yael Shavitt), and the parallel realities that develop after receiving a letter from a drama school detailing the results of her audition. Her reaction to this letter acts as the impetus for the depiction of her parallel lives: one, in which she is a successful actress, confident and often self-centered, and a second, in which she works as an assistant director, lacking in assertiveness. In both realities, Sam/Samantha is consistently engaging, and the narrative invariably moves between the two realities to highlight the difference in Sam/Samantha’s nature and manner created through her actions. The series is well-suited to the chosen format of short webisodes, allowing for character development without losing pacing (the series takes place over ten days).

Created and written by Yael Shavitt (who also stars as Sam/Samantha in adulthood), Split is a truly feminist work, intentionally created through a female-only team of four women filmmakers, resulting in an all-female on-set crew. In an industry that is still dominated by the patriarchy and the male voice, Shavitt and her team not only highlight the need for more female voices, but also the ability of these filmmakers and writers. Focusing on a female protagonist who deliberates over decisions that impacts upon her life, rather than worrying about the clichés normally associated with crucial life choices, is both progressive and refreshing. While we see Sam/Samantha in relationships in both realities, she is never defined by those relationships. Rather, we see her interact with her significant other in a personal manner which clearly indicates that Sam/Samantha is her own person with her own motivations and desires; she is not led by the wants and needs of those around her.

In addition to this female focus, Split also depicts several characters that identify as LGBTQ. These identities never feel unnaturally embedded, simply included to highlight diversity, rather these identities simply are, and in turn, are progressive, allowing the series to tell an intersectional story.

How the trajectory of Split continues remains to be seen, with only the pilot episode currently available on YouTube (the makers have recently finished successfully crowdfunding to raise the funds required for the rest of the project). Regardless, the very existence of a series like Split should be applauded. It is crucial that diverse female voices are heard in a male-dominated industry. Given the hyperreality perpetuated by the media, it is important that other voices, and different representations, are made available to viewers.

Siobhan Denton is a teacher and writer living in Wales, UK. She holds a BA in English and an MA in Film and Television Studies. She is especially interested in depictions of female desire and transitions from youth to adulthood. She tweets at @siobhan_denton and writes at The Blue and the Dim.

Andrea Arnold’s ‘American Honey’: A Young Woman Reclaims Her Life’s Trajectory

Andrea Arnold’s films largely focus on the female experience, predominantly that of young women transitioning into adulthood. … It is here then, that Arnold’s depiction of female desire and agency warrants praise. Star acts on her own wants and needs, and seeing Jake, acknowledges her longing. She consciously rejects the current trajectory of her life, and intentionally and purposefully seeks a new one.

This guest post written by Siobhan Denton appears as part of our theme week on Women Directors.

Andrea Arnold’s films largely focus on the female experience, predominantly that of young women transitioning into adulthood. These women often find this experience problematic, particularly when informed or defined through their relationship with the men around them. Fish Tank’s Mia establishes a formative, abusive relationship with the much older Conor, while Cathy Earnshaw, finding herself perpetually torn between both men and social status, is driven to physical illness in Wuthering Heights. While Mia is able to leave behind her experience with Conor, and her unsupportive family, she still finds her freedom through establishing a relationship with a man. While this male character is on equal terms with Mia, and their relationship thus appears to be far healthier, she still needs him in order to remove herself from her current environment.

American Honey’s Star (Sasha Lane) is, initially, similarly propelled into action through interaction with a male character. Jake (Shia LaBeouf), part of the magazine crew selling subscriptions managed by Krystal (Riley Keough), imparts a vision of a life filled with no responsibility. For Star, whose life currently consists of digging through dumpsters to find food with two young charges, Jake’s offer is difficult to turn down. Initially, she resists, feeling some level of responsibility towards her current life, despite its futility. Quickly though, she recognizes that these children, and indeed the domesticity that she is attempting to uphold despite the harassment she receives from the children’s father, is not her concern.

It is here then, that Arnold’s depiction of female desire and agency warrants praise. Star acts on her own wants and needs, and seeing Jake, acknowledges her longing. She consciously rejects the current trajectory of her life, and intentionally and purposefully seeks a new one.

Her meeting with Jake signals the life that Star seeks. First, she witnesses him travelling on the bus filled with the various adolescent members of the magazine crew. The pair lock eyes. Jake is surrounded by his fellow crew members, while Star holds the spoils of her latest dumpster search, young children beside her. Seeing the bus turn into a supermarket, Star implores the children to join her in visiting the store. Once inside, she watches Jake dance to Rihanna’s “We Found Love,” clambering up on the checkout counter to ensure that he’s caught Star’s attention. It is this version of Jake that Star finds entrancing; she seems to revel in his vicariousness and enjoys his physicality.

Take the scene in the parking lot, in which the pair almost face off as if battling one another. The camera constantly moves, weaving and bobbing around between the two as they edge towards and away from one another, not quite ready to trust each other’s intentions yet intrigued by what one another appear to represent. For Star, Jake represents a life lived without constraints, a life in which she has power and control over her own life. For Jake, Star seemingly represents an opportunity to indulge in his own desires.

Later, after spending more time with Jake, Star discovers that in fact, despite the image that he presents, he subscribes to the American Dream in the same way that everyone else does. He becomes disappointingly conventional, and in turn, loses his hold over her. Star has witnessed and lived the drudgery of domesticity and seeks an escape from it.

Jake tries to mold Star to his desires. He wants to have her, and to be with Krystal simultaneously without consequences. In training Star, he attempts to impart his money-making ways upon her, encouraging her to lie. She watches as he profusely insists to a potential customer of his desire to attend college and the subsequent need to sell subscriptions in order to do so. Jake expects Star to act in the same way, using any anecdote regardless of its validity in order to secure a sale. Notably, in training Star, he expects, and Krystal insists (when it is noted that Star is not yet making enough money) to secure sales through lies and blurred facts. This is the way in which Jake has found success, and to him, it is the only way. In teaching Star, Jake assumes the role of experienced, intellectual educator. He instructs Star in the ways in which he has previously found success, never offering Star the opportunity to prove her own worth in her own manner.

When Star, in an attempt to prove her worth, engages with a group of older men and agrees to travel back to their home, Jake immediately questions her actions. To Jake, Star’s actions demonstrate a need to be rescued. He arrives uninvited to the wealthy abode, aggressively insisting that Star join him in leaving. Star, left to her devices, has managed to secure an impressive sale and shows that away from Jake, she is more than capable of interacting with men and maintaining her own power dynamic. Jake struggles to accept this and chastises Star for her methods. It is after this pseudo-rescue that Jake and Star first consummate their burgeoning relationship. It is as if Jake feels the need to reassert his control and power over Star, unable to recognize that she is able to enact her own wants and needs and that she’s able to survive on her own terms.

Jake constantly insists on rescuing Star, particularly from situations that are of her own intentional making. Star agrees to offer her services to an oil worker for a substantial amount of money. There is no real sense that Star feels manipulated or coerced into agreeing to this transaction, but Jake, upon discovering the situation, once again acts aggressively. First, he asserts his masculine power by attacking the oil worker, then by questioning Star’s behavior and displaying his displeasure at her actions. We later discover that Jake regularly sleeps with the girls that he helps to recruit to the magazine crew, but he appears to insist on Star’s fidelity while not displaying any such intention himself.

It is in this moment that Star recognizes that Jake’s conventional nature is prohibiting the life that she has sought for herself. The imbalance of power that has existed cannot be corrected, while Jake still insists on performative gender stereotypes. At the narrative’s close, Jake gifts Star with a turtle. Star, retreating from the group, sets the turtle free, symbolically coinciding with her decision to allow herself to follow her own desires, rather than monitor them to cater to Jake’s needs.

Flaws Make the Woman: In Praise of ‘Love’s Mickey Dobbs

Too often, representations of women fall into clichéd binary opposites in the style of Levi-Strauss. Thus, TV shows feature the “good” woman in direct conflict with the “bad” woman, with this clash driving the narrative forward. Mickey encompasses both; she is simultaneously good and bad, selfish and giving, childish and mature. It is this complexity that ensures Mickey’s believability and development as a character. She is real and human, and thus, relatable.

This guest post is written by Siobhan Denton.

Now in its second season, Love, starring Gillian Jacobs and Paul Rust, is far more complex and developed than its detractors would have you believe. For those that have failed to truly engage with the show, the central relationship between Mickey (Jacobs) and Gus (Rust) is simply another restrictive addition to a long line of improbable relationships between a manic pixie dream girl and a less conventionally attractive “geeky” lead. While this is understandable to a casual viewer, it must be noted that to define Love as such is hugely limiting and fails to recognize the complexity that is at the heart of the series. Love’s characters, given room to breathe, are problematic and through this, are fully developed and engaging.

Quickly, it is apparent that Mickey and Gus reject the stereotypes that they initially appear to fulfill. Gus, despite presenting as a “nice guy,” is often passive aggressive and dependent. He is desperate to receive praise, and seeks it through attempting to be as amenable as possible, even when it is detrimental to his plans or aims. Gus strongly believes that he is a nice guy, and as such, should be treated accordingly. Similarly Mickey, who initially presents as a quirky, kooky, attractive woman, quickly rejects this image. She is a complicated, imperfect woman who, despite the various demands on her mental health, manages to maintain a successful career. Indeed, her ways of maintaining this career are, at times, questionable, including sleeping with her boss to ensure that she is not at risk of being fired. It’s as if Mickey cannot believe that she is successful within her role, despite the viewer witnessing her ability to multitask and appease colleagues at work, so she feels the need to ensure her success in methods that are more suited to her personal experience.

Mickey Dobbs is not an immediately likable character. Certainly she is engaging, and entertaining to watch, but her selfishness, borne out of her various addictions, often leads to narcissistic behavior. Initially seemingly motivated by self-interest, her interactions with those around her, including her work colleagues, highlights her ability to use and manipulate others. Given the room to develop without clichéd conflict or drama, the viewer soon recognizes that Mickey’s behavior is learned, and she acknowledges and recognizes it as damaging to both herself and the others around her.

In recent years, this concept of a flawed female protagonist on-screen has gained traction in television series such as How to Get Away with Murder, You’re the Worst, House of Cards, Insecure, Game of Thrones, Empire, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, Nurse Jackie, Fleabag, Damages, Jessica Jones, and Orange Is the New Black. One salient example is Girls, which features a cast of difficult and often problematic characters. Each of creator Lena Dunham’s characters is uniquely flawed, but their issues are often borne out of social status, class privilege, and white privilege. Certainly these flaws are worthy of focus, and their issues range from the complex to the superficial, yet the characters often generate their own problems leading to them isolating themselves from the audience. Unlike Girls’ Hannah Horvath, Mickey knows that she needs to work on her flaws. She also recognizes, and tries to rectify, the impact that her mistakes have had on others.

Take her interactions with Bertie (Claudia O’Doherty), her roommate, whose value as a friend Mickey does not initially recognize. Hoping to see Gus after a moment of conflict, she manipulates Bertie into attending a studio tour at the studios where Gus works as an on-set tutor. She knows that Bertie will resent the manipulation, especially when she has relied on Bertie for moral support previously, yet undertakes the ruse anyway. Once confronted by Bertie, she willing admits to her machinations and has subsequently recognized the importance of Bertie’s friendship (attempting to dissect Bertie’s relationship with Randy in hopes of protecting Bertie).

Mickey, in recognizing her issues, has endeavored to ensure that she is honest with those that she cares about. Thus she is honest about her addictions, particularly with Gus, and there is a clear sense that Mickey is consistently and resolutely herself with Gus. After their confrontation in season one, both Gus and Mickey recognize that honesty is crucial in ensuring the success of their relationship. Addictions and flaws aside, both Gus and Mickey offer no pretenses in their interactions with one another, and, in being afforded time to develop (as seen in the date episode in season two) are able to demonstrate their genuine chemistry with one another. Such a representation of a relationship, in which the characters simply enjoy each other’s company, is rare. Indeed, despite the external complications, their relationship thus far (midway through season two) is fairly uncomplicated – they simply like one another.

Ultimately, Mickey Dobbs’ characterization should be praised. She is a character who is allowed to make mistakes, act selfishly, and still be likable. Her representation is grounded in reality and thus makes her relatable and eminently watchable.

Siobhan Denton is a teacher and writer living in Wales, UK. She holds a BA in English and an MA in Film and Television Studies. She is especially interested in depictions of female desire and transitions from youth to adulthood. She tweets at @siobhan_denton and writes at The Blue and the Dim.

‘Parks and Recreation’: Leslie Knope’s Problem with Women

For Leslie, feminism means, rather simplistically, that she admires women who are in power, believing that gender should be no barrier for achievement. Unfortunately, despite Leslie’s determination to highlight her dedication to furthering the feminist cause, her understanding is not only crude and rather rudimentary, but can, frequently, be damaging. Her identification as a feminist is, much like Tina Fey’s Liz Lemon on ’30 Rock,’ hugely lacking in intersectionality. This is even more frustrating considering that three of the four female cast members are women of color.

This guest post written by Siobhan Denton appears as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions.

Leslie Knope, the much loved and indulged protagonist of Parks and Recreation, is by her own account, a feminist. For Leslie (Amy Poehler), feminism means, rather simplistically, that she admires women who are in power, believing that gender should be no barrier for achievement. Unfortunately, despite Leslie’s determination to highlight her dedication to furthering the feminist cause, her understanding is not only crude and rather rudimentary, but can, frequently, be damaging.

Her identification as a feminist is, much like Tina Fey’s Liz Lemon on 30 Rock, hugely lacking in intersectionality. This is even more frustrating considering that three of the four female cast members are women of color. Leslie is a feminist when it comes to her own interests, or encouraging other women who resemble her. She is more than willing to actively encourage April Ludgate (Aubrey Plaza) in her pursuit of career success, but works hard to distance herself from women that are not aligned with her own personal beliefs. While she does advocate for comprehensive sex education and contraception access, Leslie’s version of feminism is entirely reliant on her own morals and desires. She never truly wants to further the feminist cause, but applauds her own personal efforts as achievements for the movement.

Leslie often finds herself threatened by other women, despite no reasonable impetus. Regularly, this threat is manifested into jealously. Take, for example, her numerous interactions with Shauna Malwae-Tweep (Alison Becker). Shauna, a journalist, is regularly critiqued by Leslie. Her initial issue stems from Shauna’s romantic interactions with Mark Brendanawicz. Mark has shown no romantic interest in Leslie, and in fact, seems to find her relatively irritating at the start of the series. Despite this, Leslie places blame on Shauna, and attempts to question her professionalism and worth.

Meeting Shauna again in a similar scenario, when Leslie observes Shauna speaking to and flirting with Ben, Leslie immediately pits herself Shauna. She perceives her as a rival, rather than a fellow professional woman.

Perhaps Leslie’s disdain for other women is highlighted the most when it comes to her interactions with Brandi Maxxxx (Mara Marini). Leslie has made her views on sex workers clear from the start of the series. Spending time in a strip club, she questions the women’s life choices without recognizing her own privilege as a white, educated, middle-class woman.

Leslie would rather silence Brandi during a public forum than be associated with her. Brandi offers Leslie her support, but Leslie consistently attempts to distance herself. Her character is held up to be a figure of humor, derived both from her occupation and her perceived lack of intellect.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zoDV7iacqg8″]

Take the scene in which both Leslie and Brandi are discussing the concept of hard work. Brandi, in recognizing Leslie’s work ethic and clearly admiring it, attempts to draw parallels between them. She states that, like Leslie, she too works hard. Rather than commend Brandi’s hard work, or thank her for her praise, Leslie is clearly horrified.

Leslie is not on Brandi’s side, and we, the viewer, are also told to treat Brandi in the same way. She should be laughed at, and ridiculed, not applauded.

The viewer, in looking at both women and their physical similarity, is effectively instructed to draw comparisons between the two. Brandi is clearly presented as an example of a vacuous woman who should be treated with disdain. While Leslie, thanks to her privilege and education, should be commended for her intellectual approach.

Notably, much of the praise surrounding Parks and Recreation has surrounded Leslie and Ann’s (Rashida Jones) friendship. Yet, as has been noted, for Leslie, Ann is never really her equal. Ann, rather than fulfilling an equivalent role, is content to act as Leslie’s sidekick, cheering on her aspirations rather than necessarily fulfilling her own.

Leslie’s friendship with Ann originally stems from her personal desire to further her career, rather than truly helping Ann’s plight. The dynamics of their friendship is entirely uneven. Leslie clearly holds power, and even in her hyperbolic praise, focuses more on Ann’s physical appearance than her intellect. When she does praise her career abilities, she does so in such an exaggerated manner, that it becomes supercilious, forcing Ann to downplay her skills and in turn, undermine her own ability and qualifications.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5qUg6DQBeg”]

Many of her hyperbolic compliments are used to obscure Leslie’s real intention; asking Ann to support her without question or judgement, to be silent and supportive.

As the series progresses, Ann, under pressure from Leslie, begins to work at City Hall, despite being happy in her current occupation as a nurse. Leslie does not consider Ann’s feelings in this decision, but rather focuses on the benefits that it will bring her. Ann is a sounding board for Leslie; a compliant friend who will readily allow Leslie to offload with little in return.

Fans of Leslie will note that she is regularly applauded by other characters in the series for her kindness and consideration. She regularly provides friends with elaborate, carefully thought-out gifts, but these gifts, rather than being given selflessly are, too often, a means for Leslie to feel valued. Leslie revels in her ability to provide these presents, and gains much satisfaction from doing so. Ann and Ben both note in one episode, that they feel immense pressure to provide Leslie with a similarly thoughtful present. If Leslie’s habit of purchasing such gifts were to be truly selfless, it would not leave her loved ones feeling so despondent.

Leslie’s version of feminism is entirely informed through her own privileges and limited life experiences. Certainly the series is intentionally “small-town” in its approach, using this central conceit as the source of much of its idiosyncratic humor. Yet, when a show is going to be broadcast to such a large audience, and a character’s perceived feminism is so ingrained in character construct, it is damaging and short-sighted to allow this character to espouse the virtues of feminism when she displays so little interaction or understanding of wider intersectional issues.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Parks and Recreation: How Fat Phobia Is Invisible

Shirley, Donna, and Lana: African American Women in Thursday Night Sitcoms

Ann Perkins and Me: It’s Complicated

Why We Need Leslie Knope and What Her Election on Parks and Recreation Means for Women and Girls

Are You There, Hollywood? It’s Me, the Average Girl

What Baby Daddy Can Learn from Parks and Recreation

I Want to Establish the Ron Swanson Scholarship in Women’s Studies

Parks and Recreation Seasons 1 and 2

Emmy Week 2011: Leslie Knope

Siobhan Denton is a teacher and writer living in Wales, UK. She holds a BA in English and an MA in Film and Television Studies. She is especially interested in depictions of female desire and transitions from youth to adulthood. She tweets at @siobhan_denton and writes at The Blue and the Dim.

‘Grey’s Anatomy’ and Assertive Sisters

Meredith doesn’t feel obligated to form relationships with Maggie and Amelia due to her sibling connections with them. She doesn’t deem it necessary to acquaint herself with Maggie simply because they share a mother, nor does she try to force a friendly relationship between herself and Amelia simply because she’s the sister of the man she loves. This means then, that when these close relationships are formed, they are all the more powerful. They are formed through choice, not responsibility.

This guest post written by Siobhan Denton appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood.

Sister relationships are, largely, ones that are developed early on in life. Relationships typically first generated in infancy, sisters’ interactions and feelings towards each other develop and change over time as events and transitions are experienced together. Through this, there is a huge wealth of nostalgia that can be drawn upon, further cultivating the closeness of the relationship.

For Grey’s Anatomy‘s Meredith Grey (Ellen Pompeo), growing up as an only child, despite the existence of two half-sisters, has meant that any childhood memories, any experiences relating to her upbringing, belong solely to her. How then do the dynamics of her sibling relationships change when there is no long shared history to draw upon? No moment of growing up together? Arguably, this lack of collective ruminations means that her relationships with Maggie (Kelly McCreary), her half-sister, and Amelia (Caterina Scorsone), her sister-in-law, are both simultaneously weakened and intensified.

Much discussion has focused on Meredith’s relationships with women, and while her relationship with Cristina Yang (Sandra Oh) has rightly been praised for its complexity and development, her relationship with other women has often been more questionable. Meredith readily admits that she is “dark and twisty” and as such, seemingly has issues in forming close relationships with others. She often feels forced to act defensively, and will distance herself from others when she feels it is necessary. Even Alex Karev (Justin Chambers) was not exempt from this forced separation when, after Derek Shepherd (Patrick Dempsey) dies, Meredith takes it upon herself to leave Seattle for a year with no warning or contact. Similarly, despite her ardent love for Derek, she readily admits to him that she can manage without him, and that she doesn’t need him. Meredith’s relationships with others are certainly complicated, and there is a clear sense that, regardless of any relationships formed, she ultimately feels that it is often essential to rely only upon herself.

Meredith is completely in control, even when it comes to her romantic feelings towards her husband, stating that she chooses to be with him and rather than not being able to exist without him, she simply doesn’t want to. It is this concept of choice that, for Meredith, is so important in forming relationships, particularly with Maggie and Amelia.

Take for example, the moment in which Meredith realizes that Maggie is her half-sister. Maggie is clearly hoping for a positive emotional reaction from Meredith; this is a moment that she has been building towards for a year, and she is hoping to reconnect with an element of her past that she has only recently discovered. Meredith, initially, reacts almost aggressively. Not knowing about Maggie’s existence she sees this admission as an attempt to intrude. For Meredith, her sense of self is absolute, and to question her memory of her mother and her own childhood is too much. Emotionally too, she is not initially ready for another sister after experiencing the loss of Lexie (Chyler Leigh), her other half-sister. Meredith is aware of the bond that can be created once she opens herself up to accepting a sibling and does not want to necessarily experience the pain that can incur again.

Contrast this initial reaction to her interactions with Maggie, once she has decided to accept her as a sister. Meredith readily opens up to Maggie, and despite trying to mask it with her macabre humor, she is talking about an issue that clearly resonates and has had a huge emotional impact upon her. Meredith, who left Seattle after her husband’s death and purposely siphoned herself away, allows Maggie to see her as vulnerable. While ostensibly Maggie’s character was arguably introduced to serve as an emotional foil for Meredith after Cristina’s departure, Maggie is not simply a replacement. Meredith’s relationships with both Cristina and Maggie are unique from one another, with each character serving a different purpose.

While Meredith’s relationship with Maggie has been largely positive, her relationship with Amelia has often been fraught. Meredith readily admits that she finds Amelia annoying, and struggles with her attitude. Through her connection with Meredith, Amelia expects to be treated as a sister in the more traditional sense, struggling with Meredith’s careful selection of those who she is close to. Amelia, at least initially, doesn’t understand that her relationship with Meredith does not come automatically. She feels that Meredith should be there for her and ensure that she informs her about important issues (such as Derek’s death) purely because of their status as sisters-in-law. Again, for any relationship to take place, Meredith has to make a conscious choice. She will not allow herself to feel forced or compelled, and she understands that the closest and most meaningful relationships develop organically.

Meredith’s struggle with Amelia largely stems from her devastation over Derek’s death. It is not until Dr. Webber (J. August Richards), a father figure for Meredith, reminds Meredith of the fact that she does not need to feel duty-bound to love, or even like Amelia, that she can finally allow herself to choose how she views Amelia. Importantly, Webber remains a father-like figure for Meredith, a role that Meredith has once again allowed, exhibiting her determination to select her family.

Notably, Meredith, Maggie, and Amelia are all strong, independent women. Each one a head of a medical department, they are intelligent and ambitious. Each woman has selected one another for their family. Take the scene in which the three help Meredith’s children prepare for the day ahead.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BAekRR89Q1Q”]

Each is in sync with one another, and clearly complement each other. They are all devoted to Meredith’s children, but are still characters in their own right. This scene is notable too for the inclusion of Meredith’s advice to her daughter, Zola, in which she tells her to never date a man “who can’t handle your power.” This moment, in which all three women are looking after a child, could have easily been seen as largely maternal and traditionally domestic. Meredith’s advice reinforces the power that these three women have, along with their right to control who they engage with.

Despite this, Meredith’s connection with Amelia takes long to come to fruition, and it is only once Meredith recognizes that Amelia’s attributes are similar to her own that she is able to reconcile her issues. She explicitly states to Amelia that she is her “family” and as such, will help her in any way that she needs. It is interesting that once again, Meredith reinforces this concept of choice. She does not tell Amelia what to do, instead declaring to her that she will fulfill any role required of her. Amelia needs this choice, and Meredith recognizes that, as an adult woman, Amelia should not be told what to do. She needs to own her own decision, exactly as Meredith has done for so long.

Arguably, this fractious relationship is more emotionally genuine than the typical representations of siblings on-screen. Sibling relationships are often tumultuous in reality, but are not always depicted like that in film or television. Too often, the sister or sisters become a quasi-mother figure, replacing an absent or non-existent mother. These three women have all grown up independent from one another and, as such, do not require one another to fulfill such a role. Instead, they are able to perceive one another as equals as they have to one another as adults. Unlike sibling relationships that have formed in childhood, in which one sibling may undertake a more dominant role, all three are entirely their own person.

See also at Bitch Flicks: Meredith Grey’s Woman Problem

Siobhan Denton is a teacher and writer living in Wales, UK. She holds a BA in English and an MA in Film and Television Studies. She is especially interested in depictions of female desire and transitions from youth to adulthood. She tweets at @siobhan_denton and writes at The Blue and the Dim.

‘Jurassic Park’: Resisting Gender Tropes

Yet in rewatching ‘Jurassic Park,’ it struck me that not only is Laura Dern’s Dr. Ellie Sattler a portrayal of a female scientist that is largely unseen in film, but she is, on numerous occasions, keenly aware of her gender and how this leads to her treatment.

This guest post written by Siobhan Denton appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

Largely, Steven Spielberg is not known for overtly feminist portrayals of women in film. His work primarily focuses on similar motifs, chiefly that of father/son relationships. Yet in rewatching Jurassic Park, it struck me that not only is Laura Dern’s Dr. Ellie Sattler a portrayal of a female scientist that is largely unseen in film, but she is, on numerous occasions, keenly aware of her gender and how this leads to her treatment.

A paleobotanist, Dr. Ellie Sattler is clearly respected in her field of her work. Unlike previous female scientists, Ellie is not merely present to fulfill the Male Gaze, or to act as a plot device driving the narrative forward. Too often in film and TV, women scientists are there to either look attractive, or to simply proffer information to their male counterpart without little discussion. Here, Ellie is not only an expert in her field; she is respected by her colleagues.

Take for example the scene in which Ellie offers her ideas as to the reason the triceratops is ill.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JylK4HuKMvQ”]

Both Ellie and Dr. Alan Grant (Sam Neill) are overcome with emotion, seeing the real life incarnation of a species to which they have spent their lives devoted to. But while Alan remains enamored, Ellie quickly acts, readily questioning the other men around her as a means to solve the reasons behind the illness of the animal. She does not act subservient or submissive. While Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum) balks at the nature of Ellie’s investigations (determining the animal’s food source by inspecting its droppings), Ellie remains unfazed. Until this point, Ian has seen Ellie as a potential love interest, and while he acknowledged her education, he readily used his interactions with her to both showcase his own knowledge, and as an opportunity to educate Ellie. He attempts to highlight her intellectual failings because she, as a paleobotanist, does not have an understanding of chaos theory.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n-mpifTiPV4″]

It is not until Ian witnesses Ellie demonstrating her own knowledge that he acknowledges that her function is not to simply act as a love interest, prompting him to remark upon her “tenacious” nature. This remark, acknowledged by Ellie’s colleague and partner Alan, is said both admiringly and begrudgingly — almost as if Ellie’s refusal to conform to the role of an archetypal love interest is both pleasing to see and frustrating.

It would have been easy for Dern’s character to have simply performed the role of love interest for the men in the film, and indeed the men in the film often try to impress upon her (and each other) that this is the role that she can perform. Ellie is aware of this, and makes this clear when Ian, again demonstrating his intellect, remarks, “God creates dinosaurs. God destroys dinosaurs. God creates man. Man destroys God. Man creates dinosaurs.” Ellie’s wry response, in which she states, “Dinosaurs eat man. Woman inherits the earth,” demonstrates her awareness of her gender and her status.

While Ellie is Grant’s partner, her narrative is not dependent on her involvement with him, and indeed, much of her narrative development takes place away from Grant. Returning to the compound while Grant is left to look after the children (arguably taking on the maternal role), Ellie is compelled to offer her help in order to reboot the system. She is aware of the dangers, but does so anyway. Her action, which she quickly undertakes with little debate, is decisive. She knows that her help is needed and despite her fears, she rapidly offers her services. Both Muldoon (Bob Peck) and Arnold (Samuel L. Jackson) accept Ellie’s participation without question. It is only John Hammond (Richard Attenborough), far older than the rest, who questions her decision. It is interesting that it is Hammond who expresses his displeasure with her involvement in the mission, largely given the noticeable generation gap between the three men in the room. Perhaps this is Spielberg’s attempt at noting the necessary progression in the treatment of women. Ellie herself explicitly draws attention to Hammond’s objections, bluntly stating, “Look … We can discuss sexism in survival situations when I get back.”

Ellie is willing to get involved and does not require rescuing, unlike her partner Alan, who spends the majority of the film both fulfilling a maternal role, but also hoping to find safety. Ellie is already safe through her decision to stay with the triceratops, but she is prepared to risk this in order to guarantee the safety of others. Ultimately, it is Ellie that rescues Alan, Lex (Ariana Richards), and Tim (Joseph Mazzello) as it is through her actions that they can retreat from danger.

Despite this, Alan does still attempt to protect Ellie, requesting that she try to reboot the system while he holds the velociraptor at bay. Ellie recognizes that Alan will not be able to hold the door on his own, so once again acts to help him, and in doing so fulfills the same role as him. As the pair hold the door together, their roles are no longer gendered. Notably, it is the other female character in the room that saves the four here. Lex’s superior technological knowledge successfully reboots the system, meaning that she, along with Ellie, has helped to save those remaining on the island.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GFJekvpaua4″]

Importantly, Ellie is not an overtly sexualized character nor is she there to serve as simple set decoration; her clothes and styling are functional and appropriate to her job. She is allowed to be intelligent and brave without acting hysterical or panicked. The film affords her a fully developed, engaging, and interesting role.

Given that such a representation can be present in a successful film, it seems even more of a misnomer that so few female scientists are depicted on-screen. As has been noted, the original Jurassic Park is arguably more positive in its portrayal of women than the recent Jurassic World. Why this regression?

It is easy to list some of the representations of female scientists, as if the exception proves the rule, but until such representations are entirely normalized, not enough work is being done.

‘Pretty in Pink’: A Desire for Autonomy

Re-watching the film recently, it seems apparent that rather than Andie allowing herself to submit to Blane and all that he represents, her narrative arc is really a search for a sense of autonomy rather than a desire to transition into a world of privilege. …Blane represents an opportunity to take control of her life, to become increasingly autonomous in her decisions.

This guest post written by Siobhan Denton appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s.

John Hughes’ ability to represent a believable, empathetic, and most importantly, a realistic teenage experience has long been recognized. His characters are rightly flawed, and often blunder their way through their narrative as they begin to recognise their wants and desires, and attempt to turn these desires into reality.

Pretty in Pink was the first John Hughes film that I saw, and as such, has been especially formative for me, particularly so in terms of the characterization of Andie Walsh (Molly Ringwald). Andie is entirely relatable as she struggles to reconcile her own place in society (being from the ‘wrong side of the tracks’) and her desire for Blane (Andrew McCarthy), whose wealth seems emblematic of the life that Andie could have if she too was gifted with a privileged background. Andie is all too aware of her lack of social status, refusing to allow Blane to see where she lives, or admitting to her principal that she believes that she is lucky to be receiving a good education and as such, her relationship with Blane can be interpreted as an attempt to transcend her social status.

Much of the film’s discussion surrounds the reshot ending (as evidenced by the plethora of tribute videos on YouTube), an ending that, rather than depicting Andie with Duckie, showed her reuniting with Blane, despite his ill treatment of her. Watching this ending on previous occasions, it seemed to stretch incredulity: Why would Andie select Blane, whose embarrassment proved stronger than his own feelings, over Duckie, who has been devoted to Andie throughout her life? Re-watching the film recently, it seems apparent that rather than Andie allowing herself to submit to Blane and all that he represents, her narrative arc is really a search for a sense of autonomy rather than a desire to transition into a world of privilege.

Andie, despite her circle of friends, appears to be lonely and isolated throughout the film and there is a clear sense that she cannot be her true self with anyone she interacts with, aside perhaps, from Blane. She is friends with Duckie, but as seen in her first interaction with him as they walk down the school hallway, she isn’t really interested in what he has to say. Similarly, as she drives home from Cats with Duckie, the pair are barely registering what one another is saying. Ignoring Grice’s Maxims as featured in his theories of Conversation Principles, the pair fail to maintain relevancy, quality and manner in their discussion. Andie regards the palatial houses en route, while Duckie spends much of the conversation complaining about the music, or stating to Andie in response to her admiration of the houses, “You want beautiful, look in a mirror.” Superficially, it might appear that Duckie is engaged in what Andie is saying, but in reality he’s not. Her comments highlight a clear state of dissatisfaction with her life, and notably, come after her interaction with her friends in Cats, in which she posits the idea of embarking on a relationship with a “rich guy,” a suggestion that is rapidly quashed by Jenna (Alexa Kenin). Andie is not happy, despite outward appearances, and it is clear that for her, Blane represents an opportunity to take control of her life, to become increasingly autonomous in her decisions. This dissatisfaction is not recognised by Duckie, and he chooses to redirect the conversation into a sexual sphere, once again stating his admiration for Andie despite her continued disinterest. Duckie’s unheeded desire for Andie, as has been noted by Kevin Smokler at Salon, is not to be encouraged. His belief that Andie is the one for him leads Duckie to feeling that Andie in some way owes him, or should return his affection. Learning of Andie’s forthcoming date with Blane, Duckie reacts angrily, stating that she can’t respect herself if she goes out with him. This mean-spirited reaction is not the response of a kind and caring potential partner, but rather a vindictive character who is unable to afford the object of his desire autonomy. Andie doesn’t want Duckie, but is currently unable to make this clear to him; it is not until she embarks on her relationship with Blane that she begins to assert her own sexual identity and indeed, her own sense of self.

On a simplistic level, it might seem rather tenuous to draw links between Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette and Hughes’ Pretty in Pink, but their female protagonists both share a clear lack of, and desire for, autonomy. Academic writing on Coppola’s film has regularly noted Marie Antoinette’s lack of voice and in turn, her lack of control:

“Having no equals in the world with whom to share themselves, they are severed from an intellectual life that would allow them to speak themselves into existence” (Lane and Richter, 2011: 197).

This concept of lacking an equal with whom, through sharing oneself, a protagonist can become validated seems rather apt when considering Andie’s relationship with Blane. Unlike Duckie, Blane’s desire for Andie is measured and considered. His arrival at Tracks, the record store at which Andie works, is clearly a planned and calculated move. While Duckie almost rather literally screams to get Andie’s attention (intentionally setting off the alarm), Blane seeks her advice on a record, highlighting that he not only values her opinion, but trusts her ability to form one. It is Blane’s attention that provides Andie with the strength to confront the classmates who earlier in the film made their disdain for her apparent. While this strength through male attention could be seen as reductive, Andie’s strength isn’t buoyed by Blane himself, but rather the realization that she too is desirable and worthy of attention.

Later, when going to a party, Andie makes it clear that she doesn’t want to attend but allows herself to be convinced by Blane. As they walk around the party, Blane is clearly attuned to Andie’s reactions; watching her closely, he quickly recognizes that she feels uncomfortable so seeks a space in which the pair can be alone, and thus separate from others. Blane is similarly uncomfortable and similarly accosted when they attend Andie’s venue of choice and it is apparent that the pair’s relationship cannot exist within the confines of the society in which they currently interact with. Initially, this need to be separate proves too difficult for Blane and he succumbs to the pressures excised by his apparent friends. Conversely, the experience for Andie only makes her desire for autonomy stronger, and she declares that she wants to attend prom in order to show that “they didn’t break me.”

Realizing that Blane has attended the prom on his own away from his friends, Andie understands that he has set out to distance himself from the privileged world which he inhabited and in doing so, has also made it clear that he also seeks autonomy over his own desires. This statement of control allows Andie to finally realize her own control over her life and her actions, and in turn, state her desire and love for Blane. Now that the pair have willingly removed themselves from a public sphere and space, they are able to create their own private space (both literally and metaphorically) and gain true autonomy.

References:

Lane, C. And Richter, N. (2011) ‘The Feminist Poetics of Sofia Coppola: Spectacle and Self-Consciousness in Marie Antoinette (2006)’ in H. Radner and R. Stringer (ed.) Feminism at the movies. Oxon: Routledge.

‘Game of Thrones’: Is Jon Snow Too Feminine for the Masculine World?

Whilst ostensibly male in terms of gender, Jon Snow’s character is arguably definably feminine through his actions, motivations and interactions with both female and male characters. … This is not to suggest that Jon’s character is not masculine; certainly his actions in battle signal him to be a hero in the archetypical sense, but I am suggesting that Jon Snow’s masculinity coexists with a feminine expression…

This guest post written by Siobhan Denton appears as part of our theme week on Game of Thrones. | Spoilers ahead.

“There is no gender identity behind the expressions of gender; … identity is performatively constituted by the very ‘expressions’ that are said to be its results.” (Butler: 1999, 25). Judith Butler’s concept of gender as being performative and defined by actions rather than a universal identifiable notion is entirely apt when we consider the gender of Game of Thrones’ Jon Snow. Whilst ostensibly male in terms of gender, Jon Snow’s character is arguably definably feminine through his actions, motivations and interactions with both female and male characters.

The majority of critique and discussion on Jon’s character has, thus far, focused upon either his overt masculinity or his progressive feminism. This is not to suggest that Jon’s character is not masculine; certainly his actions in battle signal him to be a hero in the archetypical sense, but I am suggesting that Jon Snow’s masculinity coexists with a feminine expression, and it is this coexistence that leads to the events at the end of season five.

Interactions with men

Jon’s interactions with men clearly demonstrate this sense of coexistence. He is both intensely masculine, respected by the men of The Night’s Watch, and thoroughly feminine in his interactions with both Sam and Olly.

Take for instance, Jon’s first interaction with Sam Tarly. Jon is already respected by the men of the watch, and we witness him intelligently coaching and instructing his fellow men in how to improve their fighting technique. As Sam arrives, his appearance is openly ridiculed by the men as they comment both on his weight and his subsequent perceived weakness. As Sam is beaten and humiliated, Jon rapidly steps in and requests that the actions cease. His interruption draws comment from Ser Alliser Thorne who remarks, “Alright then, Lord Snow, you wish to defend your lady love?” This comment, in which Thorne attempts to highlight a male and female dichotomy between the two is notable. For Thorne, Jon’s defence of Sam marks him as explicitly male with Sam fulfilling the female role, but for me, this defense highlights a feminine and in turn a maternal nature to Jon. His connection with Sam is based on pure emotion at this point: he has no knowledge of his character but has responded to him on a visceral level.

While some may comment that such a defense links to Jon’s sense of nobility and honor (a trope that is regularly linked to masculinity), there is no real honor in stepping in for a man who cannot defend himself. At this point in the narrative Sam is pitiful and Jon’s interception further marks out Sam’s current pathetic nature. Thus, Jon has not acted upon honor, as he would be all too aware of the manner in which this interaction would be interpreted, rather he has acted upon a desire to care and look after others, a quality more stereotypically linked with femininity. After Jon has successfully defended Sam, Thorne orders Jon to “clean the armory as that’s all [he’s] good for,” further reducing him to a typical feminine role of the domestic. Thorne’s disdain for Jon seems to stem from his clear desire to protect and tend to others, as there is no place for such behavour in The Night’s Watch (women are banned from remaining at Castle Black).

Jon places himself in direct conflict with both Thorne and the overtly masculine men of the Watch when he later notes that the men should no longer bully or humiliate Sam. As Jon informs the men of his desire for Sam to be cared for, his motivation is once again linked to a romantic interest as Sam is referred to as Jon’s “girlfriend.” Here, Jon’s embodiment of masculinity and femininity is clearly apparent: his motivation stems from a feminine connection but his manner of dealing with the situation is violent and thereby stereotypically masculine. This intent, combined with such action, clearly marks him as different from the other men. Jon is unique in his approach and, whilst initially respected for it, it is soon apparent that for the other men who simply embody masculinity, Jon Snow cannot remain.

This coexistence of intent and action is again apparent in Jon’s interactions with Olly. Interestingly, this happens once again in a moment in which Jon is acting his most typically masculine and coaching Olly in developing his fighting technique. Notably, Jon’s focus in this interaction is his desire to ensure that Olly is able to protect himself, instructing him on numerous occasions to “keep your shield up.” Olly is not being coached in how to kill, but rather how to defend. Jon’s aim is to ensure the safety of the young boy rather than training him to become an efficient killer.

Interactions with women

Jon Snow’s most formative female relationship is that with Ygritte, the Free Folk (Wildling) woman with whom he falls in love. It is worth nothing that Jon, formally directed to being the masculine counterpart in his relationship with Sam, is here relegated to the feminine role. Ygritte’s superior hunting knowledge and her difficulty in understanding why any girl should ‘swoon’ immediately mark her out as functioning in a conventionally non-feminine manner. Her focus in this interaction is upon violence and possession, remarking to Snow that, “You are mine,” whilst Jon’s focus is once again on seeking to protect the lives of others. Ygritte is unfazed by the prospect of their death and in her possession of her lover, expects him to remain her possession beyond death.

Her constant refrain of, “You know nothing, Jon Snow,” highlights the hierarchy in their relationship. It is useful here to utilize Deborah Tannen’s difference theory, in which she highlights the variances between male and female conversation. Indeed, much of Tannen’s theory, in which she highlights six contrasts between male and female language, are particularly pertinent in the discussion of Jon’s nature. Take for example, her discussion upon the concept of independence (the male characteristic) and intimacy (the female characteristic). Tannen notes that men are more concerned with status and thus focus more on gaining independence. Men risk losing their status if asking for permission and thus reducing their independence, but through his allegiance with the Night’s Watch, Jon has lost all independence, as Ygritte readily points out to him. It is she that is truly free and she recognizes this, whilst Jon has neither sought independence nor recognized that it is lacking.

In a similar manner, we can see that when considering Tannen’s concept of conflict (the male characteristic) and compromise (the female characteristic), Jon once again aligns himself more with the female characteristic. He seeks a compromise with the Free Folk (Wildlings) after their defeat at the hand of Stannis Baratheon, identifying and understanding that conflict and violence is futile. Ygritte, prior to her death, is entirely focused on conflict: she sees no sense in compromise regardless of Jon’s interjections. She questions his lack of conflict when he informs her that he is a Stark, unable to understand or even identify with his approach.

Ultimately, it is this notion of compromise that results in Jon’s apparent death at the end of season 5. The men of the Night’s Watch are unable to reconcile themselves with his approach to dealing with the Free Folk (Wildlings). For the men, who only embody masculinity, a compromise signals weakness. In order to coax Jon into the trap set for him, the men appeal to his emotional, and thereby feminine side, by attempting to engage him emotionally (informing him that news of his uncle has arrived). Is this to suggest then that a character who readily embodies both masculinity and femininity cannot exist in this patriarchal world? Sam, another character who arguably exhibits both genders in his actions, perhaps recognizing the precarious nature of such an existence, has physically removed himself from Castle Black, and in doing so has, thus far, survived. For Jon Snow, whose emotions ever connect him to Castle Black, there could be no such escape.

References:

Butler, J. (1999). Gender trouble. New York: Routledge.